


et nous étions aveugles, Dieu, aveugles sur ce que nous ne voulions pas voir

by viewingcutscene



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Fraternization, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Original Character(s), Monster Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Talon Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Watchpoint: Gibraltar, mccree and tracer are good buds and i love them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-11-02 22:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10953678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viewingcutscene/pseuds/viewingcutscene
Summary: "and we were blind, God, blind to what we did not want to see""I do think that McCree would known that Reaper was Reyes if he encountered him."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in a 'side' universe to the Very Talon Christmas series, based off the bits of Blackwatch Era lore we got with the Uprising event in game, and with the comment Michael Chu made in his AMA on reddit that though McCree and Reyes haven't met in lore post-fall of Overwatch yet, Jesse would know him.
> 
> Also: the title is from S3E05 of The Leftovers opening credits, "It's a Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt World."

A thick carpet of mist rolls out of the pines edging the lake. Lit by the waxing moon, the mist glows, pearlescent, over the dark mirror of the waters. A bit moody for Jesse’s taste, but the Reaper always had a flair for the dramatic. Jesse only agreed to meet with him alone if he could pick the place, but of course, he has been kept waiting by the shadowy mercenary. So Jesse is here, among the pines of the Catskills. The stars are dim against the haloed moon, but he counts the constellations as he waits, recalling the names he gave them in the deserts of New Mexico, shivering through nights of punishment for his smart mouth. After giving the Talon operatives what they wanted, trying to reclaim some of the peace of the train ride, a few months back, he suspected they would reach out to him, hats in hand, to recruit. He never thought it would be the Reaper. Nerves a-jangle, Jesse rests his good hand on his holster. “Should light up a smoke,” he mutters. “Never fails when you’re waitin’ for a bus or phone call.” Only when his voice floats across the still, foggy waters does he realize the sounds of a forest filled with life have silenced.

A fist tangles in his hair, tumbling the hat to the needle-carpeted forest floor, and drags his head back. Eyes that burn red and hateful stare into his, flickering back and forth. He smells of blood and iron and gun oil. Jesse's flung forward, as if he was assessed and found wanting, and lands on his hands and knees in the soft earth. He picks up his hat with trembling fingers, brushes off the pine needles, and puts it on. Doesn’t dare turn, and discover he’s wrong. Blood and lymph are rushing through every channel in his body, making him dizzy and breathless and sharply aroused in the way he’d be after a good fight. Pain sings down his phantom left arm, and his fists his right hand, pressing it into his gut, gone hollow with hope.

The Reaper speaks and banishes all doubt. “Well? Speak.”

Biting down on the immediate retort that the Reaper asked to speak with him, Jesse turns, unable to help the hopeful tears that spring to the corner of his eyes. “It’s good to see you again… Commander.”

 

**7 Years Earlier:**

 

Reyes’ broad shoulders hunched up beneath his worn black shirt, dinner half-eaten and forgotten to one side, as he rifled through papers and muttered sums under his breath. Jesse spent a moment to Reyes’ quarters, tray of his own dinner in hand, to admire the man and his dedication to Blackwatch. If he wasn’t on duty with his team in the field, or supervising missions remotely, he was neck deep in administrative bullshit trying to keep the whole operation afloat.

“Betcha miss LaCroix more’n ever these days, boss,” Jesse said from the doorway. Reyes grunted, and waved him in. In the interest of efficiency - and in an effort to make sure Reyes was eating at least once a day - Jesse and the other lieutenants took turns giving their reports over the dinner hour. Shooting the shit with his agents gave Reyes permission to unwind, and fostered loyalty. Given the nature of Blackwatch’s operations, command structure was more flexible than Overwatch proper under Commander Morrison. Nonetheless, Jesse was taken aback when he realized Reyes wasn’t alone at the table.

Genji Shimada’s baleful red glare peered up at him over the tablet he was reading from. Shit.

“McCree, why the fuck does the UN want original receipts for in this day and age?” Reyes asked as Jesse swung a leg over a free chair and dug into his dinner. “They’ll call you up when they want a guy dead, no questions asked, but god forbid you submit for travel reimbursement without documentation.”

Jesse swallowed a bite of potato, and pulled the nearest bundle toward himself. Car rental - Istabul. Paid cash. Motel - Cairo. Paid cash. Clothing - Morocco. Purchased with pre-paid credit card. “Electronic data can be tracked. It’s as good as admitting you were there when the mark bit the dust.”

“They taught you about rhetorical questions at Harvard Law School, right, McCree?”

“Mm. Didn’t take.”

“What a reassuring statement that definitely convinces me that was not a wasted expense sending you there,” Reyes said.

“Remember, you were the one who didn’t want an ex-gangbanger and hormonal teen rattling around the base and wrecking your calm for five years,” Jesse pointed out.

“You’re right,” Reyes said, digging into his cold dinner, to Jesse’s relief. “It was worth it.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, accompanied by the occasional haptic rumble from Genji’s tablet as his robotic fingers moved along the screen. Reyes pushed his empty plate away, clearing his throat. Jesse’s stomach sank and the bit of bread in his mouth turned to wet sand. No matter how much Reyes tried to train himself out of the tell, that sound always preceded an awkward conversation with the Commander.

“Captain Amari called earlier. Said your practice range work was sloppy today.”

“Did she?” Jesse replied with practiced neutrality. He was intensely focused on his next bite of peas. Reyes sighed, laying his hands flat against the scarred office desk that served as his table.

“Are you aware of how bad a problem has to be before Captain Amari will take a moment out of her busy schedule to alert me to it?”

“I got an idea,” Jesse muttered.

“Do you? On the list of things Ana Amari likes to do in a given day, ‘have a nice cup of tea’ and ‘call Fareeha’ are good bets. ‘Complain to Gabriel about one of his seasoned agents’ ranks somewhere down between ‘get romantic advice from Lindholm’ and ‘latrine duty’.”

Something like a snicker came from Shimada’s direction.

“You’ve been out of sorts since the Null Sector problems. That’s understandable. I wasn’t too pleased with how Morrison’s strike team decided to handle our intel. But it’s nothing new, either. You did good in London, McCree, and you know it. You’re usually not the type to go fishing for compliments to soothe your ego.”

“I do better in the field, boss. It’s always been that way.”

Reyes shook his head and ran a hand over his dark, cropped curls. “There’s ‘bad rehearsal equal flawless performance’ superstition and there’s ‘missed six out of ten shots’ in marksmanship this morning.”

Definitely a snicker this time. Jesse winced. “Damn, boss, make fun of my dick size next or something.”

Reyes wasn’t commander of the black ops branch of Overwatch for his ignorance of human psychology. “Shimada - what were your scores in the range this morning?”

His words were muffled slightly by reverb and his accent, but clear in the small room. “Ten in ten for standard marksmanship, seven in ten when blindfolded, Commander.”

“Was Oxton there?” Shimada nodded. “Her scores, if you remember?”

“Nine in ten, both tests.”

Jesse sighed.

“Oxton’s so green, she shits asparagus, McCree, and she’s shooting circles around you right now. So. You can tell me what gives and we find a solution as a team, or we can bench you from fieldwork until you get your act together.”

Jesse switched to Spanish. “It’s the cyborg, commander.”

Reyes frowned, but kept his gaze on Jesse. “The cyborg?”

“He’s… distracting.” Jesse would’ve laughed at the expression on Reyes’ face if the whole situation wasn’t making his dinner roil painfully around in his gut. “I mean, I have a hard time focusing around him.”

“I didn’t figure you one for prejudice, Jesse.”

“No! It’s not that.” Jesse rolled his earring around in his fingers, trying to come up with the right words. “Because I’m focused on - the cyborg.”

“Huh,” Reyes began. “There are rules against fraternization, even here.”

“I know but -“

“You know,” Shimada interrupted in English. “It’s rude to talk about someone in a language they don’t understand.”

 _Christ._ Reyes’ face was stony but from years of working together, Jesse knew the rumble of laughter he held down just beneath the surface. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Shimada.”

“I don’t. But even I can recognize the words _el ciborg_.”

“I was just telling Commander Reyes what an asset you are to Blackwatch,” Jesse said. Reyes rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, McCree, have some dignity.”

Shimada stood up and gathered his weapons, which had been neatly tied together and resting against the table next to him. “If you’ll excuse me, Commander, it’s time for my physical treatment with Dr. Ziegler in any case.” He bowed to Reyes, and left without addressing Jesse at all.

The door clicked shut. Reyes took off his reading glasses and started to laugh.

“I’m so glad someone is amused,” Jesse muttered.

“Jesse, you belong to an international agency that operates unofficially as global espionage and mercenary on behalf of the United Nations. I’ve seen you bug a man’s tie while he was wearing it. You can put a bullet through an omnic’s head at a range no one should be capable of with a revolver in this century. And you fumble your admission of a fucking crush on our latest technology because you couldn’t come up with anything better than _el ciborg.”_

 _“_ You don’t really think of him as just 'technology', do you, boss?” Jesse asked.

“Shit, no. Genji Shimada’s survival was a piece of medical wizardry. I’m not sure Angela herself knows how she did it. If it had been anyone else - maybe she couldn’t have.”

A sharp, green worm ate its way through Jesse’s heart. “Is he in love with her, you mean?”

“Whatever made Shimada decide to live after everything, it’s more than a pair of big blue eyes. Love is sweet but vengeance drags a man from the grave kicking and screaming more often than anything else. Rumour is his own brother was the one who did for him.” Reyes’ gaze was distant, thoughtful. “If it were me, I’d live just to rub it in that bastard’s face.”

“If it’s retribution he’s after, I reckon Blackwatch is the right place for him.”

“You reckon, huh? I’m not so sure, myself…” Reyes sighed, and put his glasses back on. “Anyway, consider this your first warning. Get your act together, or you’re benched from fieldwork for the next three missions. You find yourself getting hot and bothered in training, tough shit. Practice mentally dissembling your weapon, think of Lindholm naked, I don’t care. Bring your marks up. After hours, rub one out in the shower like everyone else and move on with your life.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Everyone?” He grinned at the commander.

Reyes snorted. “You know, Blackwatch officially doesn’t exist. I could bring back flogging.”

“But you won’t, because you know I’d like it.”

“McCree?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“On my way.”


	2. Chapter 2

Smoke curls upward into the grey watery light of dawn. Jesse hesitates before passing the smoke to Reyes, but Reyes simply pushes the mask up on his forehead to take a drag. In the dimness, his face is a mystery. The thick acrid scent of tobacco lingers on Jesse’s tongue, bitter as memory, as he struggles to find the right words to say first. In the end, he is still Jesse McCree, and asks the only question rattling around inside him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were still alive?”

Silence drags out, long and chilly as a winter night. Reyes turns those dim red eyes, glowing like banked coals, onto Jesse, and he wants to take the question back, he didn’t mean it. But Reyes’ voice, though only a tattered shred of what it was once, is calm when he speaks. “Six months before it happened, you left in the dead of night. No note. Just gone, like Shimada before you. I don’t owe you everything, McCree. Once, you understood that.”

Jesse chokes out a laugh around the lump in his throat. “I never understood that, Commander. Be honest.”

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m not so sure I am alive anymore.” Reyes finishes the cigarette and grinds it out underneath a heel. The faint, wispy clouds above are starting to glow with a pearly golden light as sunrise creeps closer. Reyes pulls his mask down, and tugs the hood further over his face. “Let’s talk business, shall we? Time’s short.”

“Come back with me,” Jesse blurts out. “I rented a room. There’s blackout curtains if… if the sun bothers you.”

“Talon’s been curious about you since the train job. That much, I suspect you knew. You picked up a cell phone in Houston - burner, but you must know Talon has top notch intelligence.”

“The infamous Sombra.”

“You interfered in their work - Talon hates that - but you got them what they wanted. Seems like the world governments hate that more. You’re a very unpopular man, Jesse McCree. Well, Talon’s the place where unpopular, talented folks get the appreciation they deserve. We could use your skill on our next job.”

“Reyes, I - “

“Next job is public. _Very_ public. You might imagine, there aren’t many of us in Talon that blend into a crowd. We pay well. Money’s yours soon as the job is confirmed complete, untraceable, into an offshore bank account in your name. Job doesn’t even require killing, which is why the the head approved reaching out to an outsider for this one. Apparently, that’s important to you.”

“Will you stop - wait. What do you mean, the head? Aren’t you in charge?”

Reyes laughs, a hard guttural sound like dogs fighting over a bone. “When will it sink in, McCree? Commander Reyes is dead. The only thing the Reaper is good for is being a ruthless killer on a short leash.”

“I don’t believe that,” Jesse says.

“Whatever you like,” Reyes says, turning to leave. “Job needs doing. If not you, that’s nothing to me.”

“I don’t believe that either. Dammnit Reyes, will you look at me?” Jesse stretches out his good arm and grabs Reyes by the shoulder. It’s like frosted steel under his hand, cold seeping through the cloth. In a blink, Reyes has Jesse’s hand crushed in a grip of iron, claws pricking the underside of his wrist. Reyes bends it back, sending Jesse to his knees in the dirt. Just the slightest shift will shatter his arm like glass, shredding his flesh. Reyes grinds Jesse’s fingers together, the small joints creaking. He breathes slowly through his mouth, and despite the shriek of agony in his shoulder, lifts his head to meet Reyes’ gaze.

“I left because I couldn’t bear to watch you smash yourself to pieces against Overwatch anymore. It hurt too much to stay. They were killing you and you refused to leave them.”

“They succeeded in the end.”

“Did they?” Jesse’s eyes are watering but he refuses to look away. When Reyes lets his arm go, it falls like a dead weight to the ground, and he pants, tearing up in earnest. His gunslinging days aren’t over just yet, it seems.

“When did you lose your left arm?”

“About an hour after the official death count was released from the explosion.” Soft splashes fill the silence between them as fish breach the lake’s surface to catch the morning hatch. “I’ll tell you about it. If you come with me.”

Reyes shakes his head, with a throaty rasp that makes the Jesse’s scalp pull up tight and the hairs on his arm stand on end. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’ve got an unopened bottle of Angel’s Envy with your name on it, Reyes.”

This surprises a genuine - if short - laugh out of Reyes. “At six am?”

“You got something better to do?”

In answer, Reyes takes his hand and turns it over. The scratches on his wrist haven’t yet clotted over, so Reyes pushes his mask back just a bit and runs his tongue - rough like a cat’s and cold - over them. Jesse shudders at the sensation, closing his eyes, but he can’t quite shut out the sight of that tongue, forked and red as blood. His arousal surges back with a vengeance, leaving him dizzy with wanting. He opens his eyes when Reyes releases him. His wrist itches as the cuts knit together before his astonished gaze.

“Jesus…” he breathes.

“Hardly,” Reyes says. “Still want that drink?”

“More’n ever.” He lights up a smoke, flame stuttering as his hands shake. Once he gets a good draw going, he gestures down a nearby deer path. “After you.”

“Mm. It seems you haven’t forgotten everything I’ve taught you.”

Jesse, his eyes glued to Reyes’ form as he sways through the pines like smoke, isn’t so sure.


	3. Chapter 3

Jesse took his commanders advice to heart. He spent extra hours on the practice range, and when thoughts of Genji Shimada overwhelmed him to the point where holding loaded weapons was a safety risk, he took apart the guns in the armoury, cleaned and reassembled them. The work didn’t go unnoticed by the Overwatch brass, either. Morrison stopped him in the mess hall to commend Jesse on his recently acquired work ethic.

“Does my heart good to see you treating this place like a home, son,” he said. “Keep up the good work. I’ll be sure to recommend you to Commander Reyes.” He held out his hand, and bewildered, Jesse shook it. His usual spot was crowded with Blackwatch and Overwatch goons alike, along with the rare appearance of Reyes in the mess, watching his agents with mingled irritation and care. Jesse shoved himself between Ang and a new Overwatch cadet whose name he didn’t know and let his teammates rib him.

“You’re not going over to the good guys, I hope, McCree,” said Ang. Jesse punched him on the arm, before cramming a whole dinner roll into his mouth.

“We are the good guys, you idiot,” said Claire, a middle-aged woman with long brown hair turning silver, and smile lines around her mouth. A long-time scout for Overwatch, Claire was one of the central intelligence liaisons between the two operations and many of the Blackwatch team knew her quite well as a result.

“Bah, that’s just your inner Jack Morrison talking,” Ang replied. “Saving the world from the Omnic Crisis, keeping the peace, bringing truth and justice and all that. Blackwatch is the grease that keeps your shiny gears running.”

“Is that why LaCroix was assassinated?” asked the new cadet.

Reyes stirred himself. “That’s enough. Boucher, you’re new here, so consider this your sole warning: no idle chit-chat concerning the security of our operatives.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” She looked down at her half-eaten meal.

“Hey, kid, it happened to all of us at one time,” Jesse said. “If I recall correctly, I got a week of confinement to quarters for telling Morrison if he didn’t loosen up, someone might accidentally on purpose shoot him with live rounds during team combat training.”

Silence descended at the table, except for Reyes’ barely-audible groan. “Then there was the time I smarted off to Captain Amari,” Jesse continued, pointing at his temple, where a thin white line cut through the thick hair there. “See that? Turned out she had been going easy on me during hand-to-hand training up till then. Felt real bad when she saw how much it bled - least that’s what she said visiting me in medical when I woke up later that day.”

Everyone began talking over one another to tell various tales of their early days at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, rules they didn’t know, curfews broken, broken bones and scrapes earned. Claire retold the story of a difficult code she’d cracked early on in her career, only to find out upon delivery it was Morrison’s own message she’d intercepted and decoded while the target message had long gone on to its recipient. Jesse hadn’t been on active duty with Blackwatch at the time, but tensions had been high until the strike team corrected that particular mistake. A breath of wind stirred the hair at the nape of Jesse’s neck just before icy hands covered his eyes.

“Guess who?”

“Hmm, it’s gotta be my ol’ pal, Winston,” he said, to general laughter.

“Guess again!”

“Well, then, I hope it’s Wilhelm. He still owes me a drink.”

“Get off of it, Jesse, you know it’s me!” Lena Oxton took her hands away and ruffled his hair.

“Lena! How’s my best chronologically-impaired gal?” He asked, letting her give him a bear hug. “How was leave?”

“Brilliant! I’ll have to tell you about it later,” she said, dragging a chair over to their table.Lena waggled her eyebrows comically. “I met a - Genji, aren’t you going to sit with us?” Genji hovered at Lena’s shoulder, uncertainty framed in metal and plastic. Jesse’s heart clenched up and fainted dead away to the bottom of his stomach. Though they’d seen each other in passing, this was the closest Jesse had been since the disaster in Reyes’ quarters. Desire tinged with embarrassment proved to be potent inspiration for his late night shower sessions.

Reyes cleared his throat. “I have some paperwork. You can take my seat, Shimada.”

“Thank you, Commander, but I won’t be staying,” Genji said, briefly bowing to the table.

“You’re welcome to stay, Shimada,” said Ang. “We’re all reminiscing about what kinds of mistake we made when we started here.”

“Oh, that’s no good,” Lena said. “Genji doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Hmph,” Genji said. With only his eyes showing, Jesse couldn’t tell if he was pleased or embarrassed, but he did take a seat next to Lena - on the side away from Jesse, he noted with some wryness.

“How are you finding Watchpoint Gibraltar, Genji?” Claire asked. “It must be very different from home.” Everyone had a vague understanding of Shimada’s history. After all, Dr. Ziegler had written a number of articles for medical journals about recreating a body with cybernetics; all personnel are notified of new recruits arriving at base for security purposes; and of course, there was the name. Overwatch’s history with the Shimada organization was long… and bloody.

“The aesthetics are different,” he said. “But the sparseness of decor is familiar enough.”

Ang sighed. “It’s too bad you’re not cleared for active duty yet. I’m sure you would find Gibraltar beautiful. There are still dolphins living in the bay, and the weather is perfect for girl watching.

“The climate is much warmer here,” Genji agreed. “But I am not sure how much of that is because I am … different than I was.”

“Is that what the tubes are for?” Boucher asked. Jesse noticed the red cross badge on her arm for the first time. “I’ve read some of Dr. Ziegler’s work but of course, they are months behind her actual progress.”

“Elise, you can’t just ask someone about their tubes!” Lena said, scandalized. “Er… can she?”

“Is that what I am?” Genji asked. His voice was soft but Jesse could hear the steel in it, hard and brittle as ice over a pond in spring. 

“Tubes?”

“No… progress. Am I just a project?”

Silence descended over the table, and everyone seemed suddenly interested in their food and cutlery. _Say something, you coward. You idiot._ But he didn’t. Instead, Jesse stared at the tattoo on his forearm until his eyes burned, and the lines floated red and black behind his eyelids when he blinked. Lena’s breaths were shallow and quick, and he felt her struggling to come up with words, just like him.

“I see,” Genji said. A metal voice could not crack, but he heard it all the same.“Thank you for your honesty. Please, excuse me for leaving first.” Despite the rigid soles of his feet, he slipped away from the table in near silence. After a few minutes, tentative conversations began again around the table.

Jesse hadn’t realized he began to stand up until Lena put her hand on his arm. She shook her head. “Leave him be,” she told him. “Unless you want a fight.”

“Maybe I do,” he said. “Not with him. With Angela.”

“Are you mad?” Lena said. “Picking a fight with the doctor is suicide in our line of work. Let’s get coffee. C’mon.”

Steaming cup in hand, he walked with Lena along the catwalk facing the water while she filled him in on Shimada. “We’ve been training together a lot. Makes sense right? I’m the only one fast enough to match him, usually. He’s more likely to do his physiotherapy if I’m there, make it part of his training rather than his recovery. No one gawks at him there. We take breaks just as often for chronometer malfunctions as we do for him. It’s worked well enough.”

McCree lit up a cigarette from the stash kept in a loose tile on the wall.

“How cold do you get, to kill someone?” Lena asked him. Her eyes were wide, and golden brown in the setting sun. Faint freckles spread across her nose, the last galaxy of childhood not quite faded.

“Pardon?”

“When you take that shot, the one that ends someone’s life, how cold are you? How deep do you have to go where it doesn’t touch you?”

“Kid,” he said, exhaling. “It always touches you, even if you don’t know it. Cold enough. Hard enough.”

“How cold d’you think you’d have to be to do that all day, every day? Shoot a man today. Tomorrow, dig him up and shoot him again. Day after that, do it all over again. It’s for the greater good.”

He shivered. “Like to never thaw out again, that way.”

“Right? Now you have a sense of the job Dr. Ziegler has.”

“Now your yankin’ my chain,” he replied.

“Deadly serious, love. Think about it. She’s cutting into someone, every day - adding things, taking things out, changing ‘em, often forever. It’s not even the enemy she’s doing this to, but her own teammates. You go in there and tell her, ‘Angela, I don’t approve of what you’re doing to Shimada,’ she’s just going to nod, tell you she’s sorry you feel that way and please close the door on your way out.”

“Maybe I’ll make her listen,” Jesse said, stubbing out the cigarette and dropping it into the cooling coffee. “Force her to take off that goddamn suit of armor for a change.”

“And have her fall apart on everyone? If you take away her armor, she’s useless to Overwatch. Commander Morrison’ll murder you.”

“Ha, as if Reyes’ll leave him anything.”

“Tell me you understand what I’m saying.”

“Days like this, I don’t understand a damn thing about anything. But I appreciate you tryin’, Lena.”

“It’s what a good wingman does, right? Oh yeah! So anyway, I met this girl-“

 

Late at night, when he can’t pretend to sleep any longer, Jesse swiped into the practice range. He deposited his ID card in exchange for a printed air pistol for target practice. When the inner doors open, the acrid stench of corrupted electronics and hot metal assaulted his senses.

“What in tarnation…”

Each and every bot on the range was in pieces, scattered around the concrete floors.The biggest piece was about the size of Jesse’s head; the rest was broken gears and scraps of wire. Coolant and greasy lubricant spattered the walls like blood. He scooped a piece of bot off the ground. The 24 hour training range has older bots, scuffed and dulled by time and combat. The edges of the broken bot, however, were smooth and shiny-bright, like the edge of a blade.

 

In the morning, Jesse requested a week of leave, which Reyes granted without hesitation. “Best not to have you here while we handle this,” he said. “Range is shut down for indefinite future; we can’t afford replacements. Commander Morrison’s furious with Shimada, and Blackwatch by association. The less of my guys in his way right now, the better.”

“I guess he’s not recommending me any time soon,” Jesse muttered. “Did you know he called me son yesterday?”

“Mm,” Reyes said, waving a hand to dismiss him. “I suggested it to him.”

 

He spent the next three weeks fighting, fucking and stealing his way across Morroco, trying to forget the knife-edge sharpness of Genji Shimada’s rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing Tracer - I don't feel very confident at her 'voice' so please feel free to make suggestions in the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

“I’ll raise five hundred,” said Jesse.

“I fold,” said the hard-eyed looking man across the table from Jesse. Hazy blue smoke filled the air above the pile of crumpled cash and watches. “And I’m out. Big blind was the last of my cash.”

“What about those fine lookin’ guns you got there?” Jesse asked. His hat was drawn low over his eyes, and his legs sprawled out in front of him. He held a pair of threes, but nobody on either side of the Strait had bigger balls than he did when it came to high stakes Texas hold’em. “They’d serve.”

“They’d _serve?_ ” The man barked a laugh. “Boy, they’re worth more than five hundred. They’re worth your whole damn life.” But he touched the shotguns slung low over his hips, and Jesse knew he caught him.

“I’ll fight you for ‘em. Face to face. _Mano a mano_. I’m sure Faiza would clear us a space.” Upon hearing her name, the proprietor of the gambling house came over to hear Jesse’s case. She rubbed a hand over her close cropped hair, and nodded.

“We have space in the storeroom, for fighting. But only if the house can collect bets on the outcome.”

“And only,” the dealer cut in, “if you finish this hand.”

“Well,” Jesse said. “Are you in?”

“I said, I’m out.” The man tossed his cards to the table.

Jesse laid his cards out, slow and deliberate, looking Faiza in the eye. As the man left, she called out, “ _Amriki_ wins with a pair of threes!” A chorus of observers from other tables chimed in, congratulating Jesse on his daring play. One or two jeered the departing man for being suckered by such a basic bluff; when he clenched his fists, Jesse knew they had him.

“Three falls out of five. Whaddya say?”

“Fuck that, first to knock out the other. You win, you get the shotguns. I win, I get your pistol.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“Done.”

“And done well,” Faiza said, clapping her hands. “Handkerchief drops in fifteen minutes. The house will hold onto the prizes until the fight is declared done.” When Jesse and the man - had he given his name earlier in the night, when things were more convivial? He couldn’t recall - handed over their guns. They’d been emptied of ammo at the door, of course. Gun fights were bad for business, and Faiza was, above all, a canny businesswoman. He went way back with Faiza, to his early years at Blackwatch, first as lovers, and then as informal business partners, when they discovered that the men were desperate to fight Jesse. They yearned for it. They made bad bets, they insulted his clothing, his accent, they spilled drinks on him or shoved him. Something about Jesse’s over the top American cowboy horseshit made the other men - and not a few of the women - bananas for a chance to sock him in the jaw. So every few visits, Jesse would pick a fight, and Faiza would rake in the bets. It was a mutually satisfying agreement, and worked much better for both parties than the sex ever had.

He drank some water, rolling his neck and shoulders to loosen them up after a few hours of poker. Jesse looked like shit and he knew it. He hadn’t packed for his leave, aside from cash and his Peacebringer. When his shirt got too stiff, from sweat or blood or vomit, he washed it in the nearest body of water. He took off his boots and hat, and folded his shirt to lay on top. The dirt floor of the storeroom was cool and familiar beneath his toes, though the cramped space was warming rapidly with so many bodies crammed together to watch. Digging a rubber band out of one pocket, he tied his hair back.

The other man skimmed off his own shirt, revealing lean muscles, with a few puckered scars above the right nipple, and a long ropy one curving around the ribs. He crouched low and moved with the easy grace of someone who’d seen a few scraps.

Well, fine and dandy. Jesse had seen more’n a few.

Faiza came out with a red hankie in hand - one of Jesse’s, in fact - and explained the rules. Leaving the ring forfeits your right to finish the fight, and the fight ends when someone gets knocked out. Otherwise, anything goes. Before the cloth had fluttered to the ground, Jesse’s opponent essayed a quick knee at his balls. Jesse shifted, taking a solid hit to his thigh instead, and used the opening for a flurry of quick, light jabs. They broke apart, and circled one another. The other guy weaved back and forth like a cobra, not telegraphing any overt moves, just testing Jesse’s defenses. He waited, feet planted in the earth like an old oak tree. This was his fifth fight in as many days, and he wasted no energy showboating like a peacock.

The crowd’s murmur rose like cicadas on a hot afternoon, dissatisfied with the pace of the fight. The man kicked out, a short sharp snap kick, and Jesse caught his foot easily.Too late did he realize the kick was a distraction for the fist that came at him from the other direction as the man twisted in Jesse’s grip, using the momentum to land a punch to his cheekbone. Something snapped in his face, and despite himself, Jesse staggered backwards. He swiveled to deflect the follow up blow that was sure to come, and it struck him high on the shoulder blade. Tears oozed from the broken side of his face, and Jesse fought not to touch it. The next few seconds were sheer reflexive defense skills as his opponent pressed his advantage. When he finally stopped, panting, to fall back and regroup, Jesse could see he’d only lost six inches. Better yet, the man’s knuckles were split and puffing, and he’d be reluctant to throw anymore punches for a few minutes.On the other hand, Jesse’s left eye was rapidly swelling shut, and the mingled marijuana and opium smoke lent a fuzzy quality to the air. Time to end this.

When his opponent began his second assault, Jesse went low, and threw himself at the guy’s knees. One of them crashed into Jesse’s jaw as they fell to the ground, and he tasted blood. He threw one fist into the tender inner thigh, same place he’d shoot if he was going for a merciful, near-instantaneous bleed out. Pinning the man’s groin with his weakened left side, he smashed a palm upward into his opponent’s nose, bouncing his head off the packed dirt floor. He leaned all his weight onto the guy’s balls in case it hadn’t been enough, but the dude was out cold.

Jesse vomited down the man’s chest, unexpectedly and violently, until he was empty. His mouth was slick with second hand smoke and cheap beer, and Faiza didn’t offer the triumphant champion a hand to get to his feet, but vomiting made him feel almost sober and he got up with barely a wobble.

“Most people bet on you tonight,” she said later, after he’d cleaned up her storeroom and the other guy had been carried away - sans shotguns - by his friends. “You didn’t make me very much money, _amriki._ ” She poured him two fingers of good whiskey nonetheless.

“Ya didn’t tell me beforehand,” Jesse said.

“I did, actually, but you couldn’t see it for all the fire in your eyes,” said Faiza. “Ah, that’s business. Some days are better than others.” She slid the guns across the bartop towards him. “These are yours, by the way.”

He checked over Peacekeeper quickly, and let loose a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, before turning his attention to the shotguns he’d won. They were a dull, dark grey, with a sheen to the barrel edge where they’d been modified to be carried like handguns. The grips were surprisingly elegant, a sleek chrome and leather that coiled up and over the barrel like smoke. “I guess it was too much to hope for he’d leave the holsters,” he said. “Not bad, though.”

“Are you ever satisfied?”

He met her eyes, surprised. Even when they’d been together, conversation revolved around practical things: money and work, whose turn it was to buy cigarettes and condoms, best places to eat. She’d never talked about feelings with him, nor he with her, and was the likely reason for their longstanding successful partnership.

“No,” he said. He drained the whiskey and stood up. “ _Layla saeeda,_ Faiza.”

“And you.”

The air was fresh and cool outside Faiza’s establishment, but the streets were dark and shadowed. The moon had set and many of the street lights were dimmed in the early hours of the morning. In the distance, Jesse could see the lights of a nearby night market. The scent of grilled meats drifted through the air, and his recently emptied stomach growled, reminding him his last meal had been nearly twelve hours ago.

Just outside the circle of lanterns, Jesse caught a whiff of something sour, like vomit and blood. He lifted his shirt to his nose to test whether he was fit for public, when he was slammed to the ground, the shotguns tucked into the belt of his jeans digging into his back like bricks. Before he could sit up, someone grabbed his shoulders and slammed him back down. His assailant leaned forward, and in the bar of light that fell over his face, Jesse recognized the furious eyes and black hair of Genji Shimada.

“You think you’re so clever, with your swagger?”

“No,” Jesse said, throat dry as the dunes, and voice hoarse. “Not really.”

“Where are my guns, you American prick?”

“What?” _Use your damn head, Jesse, and really_ look. Not Genji at all. The guy from Faiza’s place. “Some friends you got there, lettin’ you act a fool again so soon.” A handful of others came out from the shadowed corners and doorways, standing in a loose circle around the two men on the ground.

“Ah, but me? I’ve got friends. And this isn’t Faiza’s anymore. There’s no rules out here.” The man drew a knife, edge glittering in the faint light, and the image of him blurred with Genji’s once more.

“That’s true,” Jesse said, “there aren’t.”

He drew Peacekeeper and shot the man in the stomach.

 

He laid the shotguns and the wad of cash on Reyes’ desk two days later.

“Got you something,” Jesse said.

“It’s not even our anniversary,” said Reyes.

“They should fetch a decent price on the market, if we’re still strapped for funding.”

Reyes examined the shotguns with an expert eye, cracking them open to check for live ammo first. “Won’t someone be missing these?” His fingers lingered over the chrome and leather, almost lovingly.

“Nope,” Jesse said.

For the first time, Reyes looked up into Jesse’s face. “Anything I need to be aware of, McCree?”

“Nope,” he said again. They stared at one another over the mound of paperwork and weaponry scattered over Reyes’ command desk. Jesse looked away first.

“Got two time sensitive missions on Blackwatch’s docket,” said Reyes. “I can’t lead both, so I’m giving you command of one.”

“What’s the job?”

“Your choice. One’s making contact with a potential arms dealer in Greece. The other’s intel gathering.”

“That’s the one for me,” Jesse said. “When am I leaving and where to?”

“Japan,” said Reyes. “Hanamura.”

In Jesse’s mind were dark, furious eyes and the cold bite of a knife at his throat. Dark hair brushed his cheek as blood spilled over his hands. He had thrown the clothes away, and begged new ones from a charity organization in the morning, saying he’d been beaten and robbed.

“I’ve heard Greece is lovely this time of year,” he said, and Reyes nodded, handing him a thick manila folder. “Claire’ll be your interpreter. We may need you to lawyer up for this one. Get some sleep and a good meal, read the mission details. Drop ship leaves at five hundred hours.”

Seven hours later, washed and rested, a garment bag with two clean suits laid across his lap, Jesse strapped in next to Claire on the drop ship. He handed her a copy of the mission briefing he’d prepared earlier. “Athena, set coordinates to Aegean Sea.”

“Confirmed, acting Commander McCree. Departure to occur upon arrival of final strike team member.”

“What the - mission details state two members of Blackwatch, or cognate members of Overwatch. That would be me, and Lieutenant Griffin.”

“Commander Reyes made last minute edits to mission details, section 8.A: omnic decoy bait and switch. Strike team member Shimada to bring edits.”

“Athena, did you just fucking say, ‘strike team member Shimada’?”

“Language, acting Commander McCree.”

Genji, looking completely alien, swung up into the drop ship. “Shimada aboard. Departure for Aegean Sea confirmed. Please ensure safety restraints are properly secured.” Dr. Ziegler had conspired with someone to completely encase Shimada in steel, annihilating the humanness that once been there. Scarred flesh was replaced with valves and scales of armour that flexed as he moved, limber as ever. The only hint of human conceit was a silk scarf wrapped around his upper arm. _I never even got to touch him,_ Jesse thought with a wave of sadness as profound as the sea glittering beneath the ship. He pushed his hat back off his head, feigning a sense of control he no longer felt.

“Shimada, status report from Reyes on mission changes.”

“Sir.”

As hours go, it was the longest one of Jesse’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading. I'm always open to critique and comments! This was fun (in a weird sense of the word fun, anyway) chapter to write. Next update, we're back to the present with Reaper and McCree! What could this Talon mission be??


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reyes fills Jesse in on what Talon's next move is.

Soft grey light blooms over the deserted parking lot as Jesse unlocks the door to his room. Reyes scurries into the gloomy interior, masked face buried deep in his hood and hands crammed into his pockets. He can feel Reyes’ eyes on his back as he locks the door. “Don’ get mad - I know a locked door ain’t gonna keep you in, but it might keep prying eyes out.”

He pours two fingers of bourbon into a Dixie cup and hands it to Reyes. The bottle, he keeps for himself. He’ll need it, before the talk is through.

“So, what’s on Talon’s plate these days?” he asks. “Climate manipulation? Treason? Embezzlement? I see Akande made it out of prison - that was you, wasn’t it?” The space feels too close, too tight. Reyes fills the room like a scream, black on black on black, with that ghost white mask leering from the shadows. Coming back here was a mistake. “Reyes, sit, won’tcha?”

“When will you get it? Reyes is _dead_.”

A twinge flits down Jesse’s synthetic arm. “Believe me, I know. But I’m not calling you The Reaper, so. Reyes it is, unless you have something better in mind.”

Reyes turns aside to push the mask up and drink. His voice is raw when he speaks. “The ‘the’ is optional.”

“And the mask?”

“Non-negotiable.”

Jesse puts the bottle of bourbon down on the nightstand with a heavy clunk. “You want me to work for Talon? You trying to recruit me again? Give me at least the same credit you gave a little punk from New Mexico, huh? Talon’s on the upswing - Akande free, omnic peace in tatters without Mondatta. Interesting news coming out of Russia these days that’s got claw marks all over it. Bits and pieces about former Overwatch agents here and there, turning up dead. What’s got them so riled up they need a freelance merc like me for?”

“LaCroix.”

“Amelie? Mighty fine shooting on the Mondatta job. What’s wrong with her?”

“Not her. Gerard.”

Laughter catches in Jesse’s throat, bitter and smoky. “Reyes, the man’s been dead for more’n seven years. Give me something to work with here.”

Even before the fall of Overwatch, before Jesse walked away from it all, before Hanamura, Reyes had a flair for the theatrical. No matter how clean, how bare his policies, his form on the practice range, his focus on the field, there was always a little twist that was uniquely Reyes carved into everything he did. When he removes his mask now, it’s gone, stripped away completely. A broken and twisted creature is all that remains of the commander Jesse loved.

Beneath the hood, Reyes’ face writhes like smoke, revealing the ghostly gleam of bone or glisten of muscle. His eyes are deep pits under a heavy brow, where red lights flicker and swirl like baleful galaxies. When he looks at Jesse, the lights come together like beads of dew on a web and then fly apart to resume their dance. His mouth, such that it is, is a crooked gash stitched together with needle teeth. Tendrils like dark steam snap and weave around his face, oddly beautiful, threaded in greys and golds.  
Jesse sits, hard, and blindly gropes for the ragged pack of smokes on the bed. He steadies one hand with the other as he lights up. “Tell me.” As the initial surge of adrenaline drains from his body, a lethargic peace settles in its place. _Now I know, and I survived the learning of it._ Thoughts of Genji flare up in his mind like a firework flash, and he pushes it away. _That’s not the same_ , he admonishes himself, _and I don’t appreciate the attempt._

“Reyes died in the Swiss explosion. Not drama - truth.” Reyes paces the ragged floor between the two beds as he speaks, wisps of smoke curling around the edge of his hood. “Many were never found, including Reyes and Morrison. But someone found Reyes’ body, and did this.”

“Who could have done it? And how?” This wasn’t cybernetic enhancements, or even omnic interference. It was something completely outside the universe of known facts.

“I have suspicions,” Reyes says. “Talon has ways to get useful information. At first, to enhance my capability in the field. Later - well. I know it’s biotic tech, so small it’s nearly indistinguishable from biological matter.”

Neurons began to fire again in Jesse’s short-circuited brain. “O’Deorain?”

Reyes shrugged. “In Iraq when the explosion happened. Sent her myself. But she has the means, and she lacks the morals.”

Jesse started pacing the room between the two beds. Reyes sat on the far end of the room, metal tipped claws folded together and dully gleaming under dirty motel room lights. “So, LaCroix then.”

“Body was taken at time of assassination. Photos sent to confirm kill to Overwatch. Morrison couldn’t admit it, so buried fake body in state in LaCroix’s place. Amelie was gone, didn’t think it mattered. But it always matters.”

“Where is he?”

“Antarctica.”

“Ant- Jesus, Reyes, the South Pole? There’s no way. It’s been buried under a catastrophic blizzard for years.”

“Preserve LaCroix’s body in cryostasis. Bring him back when the tech is there.” He holds out a hand, smoke coiling around his palm like a snake. “I’m the proof it works.”

Jesse takes a long drag on the dwindling cigarette, trying to dull the scrape of pain from the raw despair in Reyes’ voice. No one got very far in Blackwatch without a sardonic sense of humour, but Reyes’ resurrection had crystallized it into something bitter. But he was still Reyes’ damnit! Jesse had known him in an instant, new form, new voice and all. No matter what, Jesse knew the man he trusted with his life, on many occasions, was still a part of the creature before him. And if he wasn’t… If he was wrong about Reyes, then Jesse would rather die than live in a world knowing that man was gone forever.

“Antartica, then,” Jesse says. “How do we get there?”

“You’ll love it,” replies Reyes. “Any smokes left?”

Jesse checks, but the pack contains only crumpled silver paper. He takes a final drag, and holds it deep, intending to pass the butt over to Reyes. The way they used to, years ago, sitting atop a shipping crate to watch the sun set over the Strait. Instead, he leans forward, smoke trickling from slightly parted lips and presses his mouth to Reyes’. He exhales warmth and smoke and life into Reyes, praying for a fairy tale moment that will bring Gabriel back to him, whole and alive and free from Talon. The bubble bursts as icy claws grip the back of his head, hard, scratching the skin at the nape of his neck. Needle teeth scrape against his beard and a bead of blood blooms where one pricks his lower lip. Reyes makes a low, frustrated sound that’s half groan, half scream and pulls away, shuddering.

“Don’t,” Reyes says.

“I trust you, Gabe,” Jesse replies. He licks the blood away. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Don’t,” he says again. “It hurts _me_.”

While Jesse crouches there, frozen in anguish, Reyes opens the door. “Let’s go. Clock’s ticking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lord have mercy, I updated.


End file.
